Rappresaglia
by Dynast Grauscherra
Summary: The dish is best served cold, with a slice of lemon for extra bitterness.


**Rappresaglia**

The room flared white from the crash of lightning outside. Black shadows quickly claimed the walls once the lightning had passed, the sounds of rain pattering upon the windowpanes a steady beat in the night. The moonlight lent its pale yellow glow, the only color clashing against the blackness.

The room's sole occupant, laying deathly still upon a stiff, sterile mattress covered in starched sheets, stared up at the stained ceiling overhead. His bed was located near the sole window in the room, as his caretakers thought the view outside would give him some measure of comfort during his last few moments. The man would not be comforted though, as he did not even have the strength to lift his head up and look.

His wheezing, pained breaths served as an accompaniment to the staccato taps of the raindrops upon the window. The man's chest rose high and fell deep, his dying lungs struggling to wring every last ounce of life giving oxygen from the air. Each breath he took seized his body with hideous pain, yet he could not stop himself as life's pull kept him surviving despite the agony he felt.

Tears leaked from his eyes as memories of years past filled his mind, a mind that was still razor sharp despite the horrendous state of his body. Time may have claimed his limbs, his bones, his muscles, and his organs, but it could not take his mental faculties. His thinking was as fast as it was in his prime, untouched by the senility that had corrupted others of his age.

He had not always been like this: a sorry mess of aged and useless flesh. He was once strong, and lithe and quick; none could have matched his skills at movement, his speed and swiftness. He could sail through the air, climb up vertical walls and carry loads twice his weight. His ability at manipulating himself was so great that many, even he himself, had thought him invincible: A god given flesh.

Yet time had proven everyone wrong. The terror that he was, for he certainly did use his skills to cause harm to others, was all but forgotten now, lost in the decades that had passed so quickly. He was known by so many names back then: Martin Sevallos, the Scarlet Mist, Tim Deadeyes, Royo Sev, Vino, Antonio Astopholos, the Railtracer, Claire Stanfield, Pallid Phantom, and many more. Such names once struck fear into the hearts of many men and women and children; the wicked thought twice before acting upon their vile urges in fear of his judgement. Now though, his names meant nothing to anyone. He was forgotten, just an amusing little footnote in history, his legacy relegated to one small paragraph in encyclopedias.

A creak burst forth from the shadows, the sound of aged wood moaning in protest as pressure was applied to it. That sole sound ripped upon the symphony of raindrops and painful breathing, causing the ordered lyrics of the occupant's dirge to become out of tune.

His breaths came harder as another creak shot through the air, then another, until his aged ears could decipher the footsteps that accompanied them. They were light and lithe, coming from a body that was small and weighed little. The steps were slow, coming at odd intervals. The man's eyes lurched to and fro, searching the shadows for the source of the accursed footsteps. The sounds seemed to be traveling around the room, coming close, then moving away again. There were no patterns to the movement, just random sounds coming from here, then there, close then far, no rhyme or reason to them at all. It was absurd, and infuriating. What irked the man even more was that he knew that it was being done on purpose, to humiliate and abuse him. To show him that in his current state, he was completely impotent and unable to stop such a childish and simple irritation.

The demented game of footsteps around the room ended finally, after what seemed like hours of torture. Eventually the footsteps ceased their slow, piddling motions, turning to a more defined movement. There was intent in those steps, and the man wondered at whether such intent was benign or malignant.

The footsteps finally stopped at the side of his bed, and the man turned his yellowed, gloom-filled eyes to the small form standing next to him. Despite the fact that it had been decades since the man had seen the boy last, he still recognized the child's fine features.

"Hello," the boy spoke, his voice still the same lilting tenor, almost feminine in its youth. "Long time no see." He then smiled. It was not a nice smile.

The man knew, even back then when they had first met, that this child was no child at all. He was far older than he, far older than anyone else he knew. He also knew that this child was ruthless as a cobra, which was why he did what he did all those years ago.

"Wow, you look like crap," the child told him rudely before letting out a peal of hysterical giggling. "No, you don't look good at all, Mister."

The boy, in a show of damnable insolence, hopped up onto the bed, seating himself by the old man's limp, emaciated form. The wrinkled face cringed in pain as his ache-filled limbs were jostled, and a croak of complaint erupted from his throat, the sound managing to gurgle up from between the various plastic tubes and hoses running down its length. The boy paid his discomfort no mind, as he continued smiling down at him, legs swinging to and fro as if he were seated on a swing set.

"I've been waiting a long time for this, Mister," the boy spoke, his face still lit up with an impish grin. "Seeing you like this, all… helpless. It's really funny." The child's smile dipped downwards slightly as his voice deepened, losing some of its childlike qualities. Anger was evident in the soft tones, a pure and consuming rage that had been simmering for decades. "I was helpless, too. Remember?"

The boy lifted his hand, extending his small index finger before bringing it down onto the old man's chest. He then proceeded to push the digit in, digging the soft pad into the man's ragged flesh, in the space between two ribs. The old man gurgled as a lance of pain shot throughout his body, causing his limbs and head to flinch and shake. The little boy smiled again, though this time the malevolence in his gaze was clear.

"Yes, I was probably like you are now, wasn't I? Helpless and unable to stop you." The child's brown eyes seemed to glow a demonic red from the streetlights outside the nearby window, and the old man felt a chill run up and down his spine. "Unable to do anything while you hurt me… violated me. Did you enjoy torturing me, Mister? I bet you did. So smug and superior, so righteous and full of yourself. So proud of having complete and total power over someone who couldn't fight _back_." The child's voice hissed out the last part, his small body shaking with emotion. Hatred seemed to be pouring out of his tiny form, and the old man almost gagged from the stench of it.

But then, the dark, fierce hate that was pouring from the boy suddenly vanished as his face lit up in a mischievous smirk. "But you were wrong, Mister. I _could_ fight back, just not then. As an immortal, I own the best weapon, a weapon that people like you can never have. I had _time_ on my side, Mister. And time is so much better than any gun or knife."

The old man gasped then, some air gurgling up from his chapped lips. He was attempting to say something, but his body, as it always did nowadays, refused to cooperate. But his blue eyes shone with startling clarity; they were still the eyes of a young man, the young man who the boy knew so long ago.

The boy flinched upon seeing those orbs, the fierce, frightening blue that so haunted his dreams for many years. For a moment sheer, absolute terror rocked him to the soul, and he almost fled screaming as he saw those blue eyes glaring so intently at him. Every fiber inside him screamed to run, as if the old man might suddenly find renewed strength and reach out with claw-like hands to inflict horror and pain upon him as he did so many years ago.

But despite appearances, the boy was not a child. He had not been a child for almost three hundred years. He himself was older than the old man who lay dying on the bed next to him, and thus such childish fears were squashed swiftly.

The boy sneered at the man's glare, then reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small object. It took the old man a few moments to recognize the thing by the light from the streetlamp outside his window. The boy held the syringe closer, allowing the dying man to see the murky amber mixture within.

"I doubt you recognize it," the boy spoke, his voice tinged with pure malignance. "It took me so many years to perfect. I was so happy when I did it, though. It is the perfect panacea; the glorious elixir of eternal life." His grin grew wider as his fee hand reached out to grab the old man's arm. "And you were the first person I thought about when I completed the first batch."

The old man gasped, his eyes flaring with alarm. He attempted to struggle against the child as the boy brought the tip of the syringe to his exposed arm, but like always his present strength failed him. Silently he called out for help, decried his fate and attempted to summon up all the power and strength of his youth to aid him. But alas, all efforts failed. He felt the cold sting of the needle piercing his flesh and the warmth of the brew flowing into his veins. Fury and sorrow gurgled out from his mouth as the full horror of the situation settled within him. Spittle leaked from his mouth and tears from his eyes as he realized what was now in store for him.

"Congratulations," the boy mocked as he pulled out the syringe. Blood began leaking from the puncture, dripping down the old man's arm to stain the white sheet beneath it. But within a few moments, the blood flow seemed to reverse, and like a video in reverse the red liquid crawled back up from the sheets, trickled back up his arm before vanishing back into the hole. The puncture mark from the needle sealed itself up, and soon even the scar vanished as the damage repaired itself.

Yet despite this miraculous healing of the new wound, the old man still felt all his old agonies. His limbs and extremities still ached and throbbed. His lungs and insides felt like jelly, and he still felt like he was breathing through a thin straw. Every aged cell within him felt as if it were on the precipice of a very tall cliff, just teetering on the edge but never falling into the dark calm blackness below.

"You are now immortal," the boy continued, a smug look of satisfaction on his face. "You will live forever as you are now: frail; in pain; perishing for eternity. You'll suffer the agony of dying without ever feeling the peace of actual death. This pain that you feel now will go on forever and ever, until the end of time. And trust me, I will make sure of it. Right now some of my employees are writing up your death certificate. In the morning, the nurses will find your bed empty and some paperwork detailing the coroner's removal of your body will be delivered to your physician. You, on the other hand, will be nice and safe, buried six feet under in an unmarked grave like the corpse that you are." The boy grinned down at the old man, all but ignoring the horrified fury blazing from his blue eyes. "Don't worry, Mister. I'll be sure to visit your grave once in a while and leave flowers by your headstone."

With those final words, the boy leapt off the bed, giggling happily as he waved goodbye to the old man. He looked for all the world like a true innocent child as he then rushed out the doors, hands held out at his sides whirring about making airplane noises as three men dressed as orderlies entered the room with a stretcher. The old man gurgled, attempting a futile struggle when the men unhooked him from his life support machines. They then loaded him up on the stretcher, which was ready to drag him off to who knows where.

All the while he kept hearing the boy's laughter, sounding merrily through the hallways outside.


End file.
